


No One Ever Expects Vampires

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sollux Captor's first (and only) drunken hookup does <i>not</i> go the way he planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Ever Expects Vampires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrose/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift fic for tumblr user [ketolic](http://ketolic.tumblr.com/)! She asked for human Sollux and non-human Eridan. Since it's Halloween, I decided to incorporate that into this little ficlet, so! Happy late birthday, dear!

You see him across the table, between the blood punch, brain cupcakes, and the gnarled, decorative tree made entirely out of black licorice (because no one on planet earth actually eats that shit, and this is a halfway decent use for it).

It’s dark, and smoky, and above all _loud_ in the living room of someone’s (you have no idea who the host actually is, only that they’re a friend of a friend of Aradia’s) much too nice for you house. There are no strobe lights, thank god, but everything is a kind of sickly yellow-orange color from the colored light bulbs and the thick fake spider webs draped over everything, and even then it’s a barely there kind of illumination that has you banging your knees into the low coffee table near the center of the room every time you try to slide past. There’s music blaring through the surround sound speakers, but ninety percent of the crowd is too drunk to care, and you’re well on your way to getting there yourself, which is exactly why you’re checking out the guy hugging the wall behind all the snacks, half hidden in shadows and fake, cheerful looking ghosts.

He doesn’t look dressed up, not like most of the party goers, unless his costume is “pretentious college hipster douchebag”, in which case his black cardigan, deep violet v-neck, and bat-patterned scarf execute the motif perfectly. (You do kind of like the bats, admittedly, they’re cute without screaming SPOOKY like most Halloween-themed articles of clothing do.) As you stand there, sipping at your fourth (fifth?) glass of blood punch, you watch him toss a handful of candy corn into his mouth, where you see the perfect, sharp glint of the most convincing vampire fangs you’ve ever seen in your life.

You don’t consider yourself a make-up buff, but Aradia has been using you as her guinea pig since she was old enough to spatter fake blood on your already sickly pale skin. And she’s gotten better, to the point of airbrushing and prosthetics and wigs, and you’re still her favorite model because you already kind of look like a walking corpse. It makes her job that much easier. So through no choice of your own, you’ve learned along with her how to pick out seams and apply bald caps and fake teeth, and quite frankly, you’re impressed with the amount of time this guy must have spent on _just_ his fangs, since that seems to be the only special effects aspect of his costume.

“So, do you usually dress like that, or is it part of the gimmick?”

He startles, losing a piece of candy corn in the dark folds of his scarf, swearing as he digs it out and giving you a look that’s one part skeptical, one part interested (you think, you may possibly be drunker than you want to admit, because fuck that punch is good). “Usually I’m wearing a full tuxedo and a velvet-lined cape, but I thought I’d dress it down a little to blend in with the rest of you mortals,” he says, flashing you a fangy grin.

“It’d be working if you kept your mouth closed,” you answer, giving him a smile of your own, although your crooked teeth are probably much less attractive than his perfect pearly whites. “Nice fangs, by the way.”

Laughing, he downs the last couple pieces of candy corn still in his grasp before extending his hand. “Thanks. I’m Eridan.”

“Sollux,” you say back as you take his hand, trying not to marvel at how soft and deliciously chilly his skin is.

Eridan gives you a critical look, from head to toe and then back up, an eyebrow arched in clear confusion as he meets your gaze again. “I can’t tell if you’re wearing a costume, or if you just came from work. Or both.”

Aradia had wanted to do something extravagant, as per usual (she’d mentioned wanting to do some kind of alien) but you, admittedly, had been at work until late and came straight to the party afterwards. You’re still wearing your Geek Squad shirt and uniform regulated pants, as well as a positively ancient, clunky headset that’s a lot more obvious than the one you actually wear when you’re on the clock. “Both. I’m a lazy sack of shit, so this is probably what I would have worn anyways.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think you’re actin’ appropriately for the holiday.”

You scoff back, draining the rest of your punch. “Same could be said about you, asshole.”

“Wow, excuse you,” he says, tugging on his bat themed scarf, looking almost insulted that you would insinuate that he’s lacking in Halloween spirit.

You end up sitting against the wall with him, another cup of punch in your hands while he holds the bowl of candy corn hostage (no one protests on the account that he’s probably the only person at the party who likes it), hidden behind the snack table and reaching through the tablecloth with your feet to nudge people’s shins when they approach. It startles them, and makes Eridan laugh, especially when the girls squeal or the boys swear (or vice versa, you’re pretty sure one of screamers is a guy you went to high school with).

He’s settled against your side, legs drawn up to his chest with the bone-patterned bowl balanced on top of his knees, smelling just slightly sweet, like flowers, with an undertone of musky spice, and you _must_ be more drunk than you thought, because you’re leaning on him pretty obviously, reaching into the bowl at the same time as him just to catch his gold decked fingers for a brief, breathless moment before he pulls them away to pop more kernels into his mouth. You’re not usually very flirty, are way too damn socially awkward to be flirty, but he’s just so painfully attractive that you’re waxing poetic about his amethyst eyes and moonlight pale skin and raven black hair, and how when he smiles you can see just the barest hint of his fangs poking into his ridiculously full lips.

“You’re really pretty,” you say, once you’ve hit the bottom of your punch glass again.

“Most guys would be insulted by that,” he points out, straining to set the candy corn bowl back on top of the table before turning his full attention to you. Even behind his glasses, his eyes are so intense that it makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Are you most guys?” you ask, trying to sound smooth and suave and confident, but mostly you just sound unsure, because you really have no other words to describe him, even if it implies something soft and feminine. He’s just _pretty_.

Eridan laughs, at that, like you just told him a joke but you didn’t understand the punchline, and his expression softens. “Can’t say that I am,” he answers honestly, plucking your plastic cup from your damp hands and setting it aside, you don’t really care where, and leans forward to kiss you.

His lips are smooth and cool and taste horribly, appallingly like candy corn, but his fingers tip your chin up and you can feel the jewels on his rings pressing against your skin, and you couldn’t care less if he’d been gargling motor oil. Because his breath is soft and steady, and the way your glasses click together is actually endearing, not annoying, and you’re about to melt into a puddle on the hardwood even though you don’t do shit like this, don’t hook up with attractive strangers in horrible clothes at Halloween parties, but that’s exactly what you plan to do.

Maybe it’s time to stop, at least for one evening, being a twenty-something stuck in a dead-end job that you hate and not able to give a shit about anything or put yourself out there or take chances.

You catch the back of his neck, under the scarf, to tug him closer, and he makes the most delicious, pleased sound against your lips, and it’s not even a fucking question.

“So,” he murmurs, just barely far enough away to speak, his eyes lidded as they bore into yours. “You wanna take a look at my hard drive?”

You laugh so hard that you’d fall over, if not for your grip on his neck and his fingers still on your chin. “Yes,” you answer, when you stop snorting yourself to death, and it’s so precious that his cheeks are flushed and his smile is just a little awkward, like he’s not sure if you’re laughing with him or at him. “Hell yes. Time to run a full diagnostic test.”

He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss how his smile widens, and then you’re being hauled off the floor and through the living room, everything a spinning, swirling mess of dark colors and costumed bodies. Eridan’s arm is firm around you, keeping you from falling over and knocking yourself unconscious on one of the fog machines, and you hadn’t realized how off-center you were until you stood up. Distantly, you think you spot Aradia and her beautiful butterfly make-up, but she’s gone in a blur of red paint and loose, black curls. You just hope she has enough tact to not barge in while you’re in the middle of making out with the hipster vampire, because while she may be your oldest and most dear friend, you’ll strangle her with your headset cord if she cockblocks you.

The first door you come to down the long hallway adjacent to the living room is a half bathroom, thankfully free of all the garish Halloween decorations, and Eridan wastes no time in pulling you inside and pushing you up against the door. His tongue traces the back of your earring, and your legs promptly turn to jelly, making him press harder against you to keep you from sliding to the tiles. At least they look clean, although you couldn’t for the life of you say what color they are.

He tongues his way from your ear down your neck and back up, peppering little kisses across your jaw as he slips the headset off and lets it fall to the ground. You’re already rocking your hips against his, one hand lost in his hair while the other hooks your fingers in one of the belt loops of his skinny jeans to keep him as close as possible, because you’re always so fucking horny when you get drunk. You don’t make an ass of yourself because of it, it just usually means you ollie out of parties early to jerk off and fall asleep on the sofa because it’s not as if you have any other options.

But suddenly you do, and his lips are so soft against your scratchy skin (it’s been a couple days since you last shaved and you’re a little prickly, and you just hope it isn’t horrible to kiss), stroking at your collarbones through your shirt as he hitches one of your legs up to wrap around his hips. You’re taller than him, but you’re also slumped against the door and panting into his ear, so you’re at the perfect height for him to kiss, to grind his erection against yours, and every time his hips roll, so much smoother than your jerky reciprocation, you groan deep in your throat and he sighs in a decidedly pleased response.

You tug on his hair, feel with your hands the way his body moves against yours, smooth like silk, and you bet he looks fucking amazing right now but you can’t seem to pry your eyes open long enough to actually see. So instead you imagine, his soft skin slick with sweat, the pale column of his neck peeking from under the black ink of his scarf, the tidy waves of his hair mussed by your hands, those incredible, indescribable eyes watching from under his lashes.

“Sol,” he moans when your nails scratch against his scalp, dipping his head down to nose at your neck. And you’re worried, for a moment, that you stink, because wow you totally didn’t go home and shower after work that’s kind of gross, but he’s breathing just as hard as you are now, one of his hands slipping around to grab your ass and haul you up a bit higher, forcing you to wrap your other leg around him, and holy _shit_ is that hot. He’s strong enough to hold you up completely, the new angle letting him really rut his erection against every inch of yours, and you’re about ten seconds from coming in your pants when you feel the sharp points of his fangs dragging across your skin-

Wait.

What?

Your brain is the precise consistency of pumpkin goop, but your higher brain functions helpfully chime in that even the best fake fangs don’t come to needle-like points, because it’d be too fucking easy to bite through your own damn tongue or tear your lips to shreds if that was the case. But no, there’s that prickly scrape again that reminds you of the tattoo gun when it scraped against your shoulder, and he’s mouthing right over your jugular.

And probably because you’re two drinks past your threshold and you have the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever met in your life pinning you to the door, rubbing against your dick in a way that has your vision crossing, all you can do is laugh. “Really? _Really_?” you wheeze.

He seems to realize what he’s doing, because he stops moving and draws away from your neck very slowly. When you open your eyes, his mouth is still open, those sharp points looking a lot more dangerous up close than they did at the snack table, but he’s breathing even harder than you are, pupils helplessly dilated, and a lock of his hair has come free to curl in a perfect spiral ringlet right next to his eye. Your heart is also the precise consistency of pumpkin goop, but warm, congealed, and you wonder if he’s working some sort of magical vampire voodoo on you and come to the astonishing conclusion that you don’t give a shit.

“Just don’t kill me,” you rasp, tugging him back towards you with the hand still knotted in his hair.

Eridan looks at you like you’re some sort of angel, or a god, rumbling deep and subsonic and _predatory_ somewhere right under his ribs that you can feel vibrating through your skeleton, before rising in pitch to a familiar, desperate moan. “Sol,” he whispers again, rubbing against you, and your head falls back against the door with a thump, baring your neck to him, and apparently he was holding back before, because he’s hitting all the right places and the hand not on your ass has slipped under your shirt to stroke the quivering muscles of your stomach and up your heaving chest.

He licks a long, broad stripe up the curve of your neck before you feel those fangs scraping, searching, like a doctor making sure he’s found the vein before inserting the needle. And with another desperate, hungry groan, he bites down, and you’re aware of a slight pinch, an almost uncomfortable slide, before every nerve in your body goes absolutely berserk and you come harder than you’ve ever come before in your life. And it doesn’t _stop_ , as he starts sucking on the wound, removing his fangs from the tiny holes and covering them with his lips, taking long pulls and whining in the back of his throat as he does so, continuing to rut against your hips even as you sob with how _good_ it feels.

When he comes, it’s twitching and trembling with short, desperate gasps against your damp skin, hand almost convulsing against your chest, like it’s just as soul-destroyingly intense for him as it is for you. And he’s still whimpering softly, once he’s stopped moving and is just holding you there, licking carefully, affectionately, at the area of your neck that feels hot and irritated and still too damn sensitive. Your cheeks are damp, your glasses are crooked, and your boxers are _ruined_ , but you still grin at him when he looks at you, cupping your cheek and studying your face intently, like he’s looking for something.

And it’s a little weird, to kiss him and taste the coppery tang of what you know is your own blood, but you can trace his fangs with the tip of your tongue and that makes him shudder and whine and clutch you closer. Everything feels liquid, runny almost, and you’re completely boneless against him, unable to even lift your head up from against the door. Carefully, his hold shifts, so he can hold you against him properly, lips resting against your hair right above your ear, and you think he says something, soft and beautiful and completely nonsensical, before you pass the fuck right out.

 

A week later, the only evidence you have that the whole thing wasn’t a dream is the truly impressive hickey on the side of your neck with two tiny, pinprick dots right in the center. All your co-workers assumed you were just playing up the Halloween thing, letting Aradia make you up like a vampire victim, and you don’t try to convince them of the contrary. When you approached her the day after the party with no recollection of how you'd ended up in your own bed, she'd given you a bit of a curious look, and told you that some hipster guy carried you back into the living room after you apparently got sick in the bathroom and left without another word, and she’d taken you home immediately afterwards.

Given the abrupt exit and the fact that he didn’t even leave you a slip of paper with his phone number in it, you were never expecting to see Eridan again. You didn’t even know his last name, and although it was stupid, you were fucking sick over the idea of him slipping out of your life as easily as he came.

So when you find him standing by your car, wearing more or less the same thing as the night of the party (his scarf has constellations on it this time, though, and you love it even more than the bats), your first instinct is, naturally, to try and sock him right in the face.

Of course, he catches your poorly thrown fist, because he’s fucking _vampire_ and could probably break your hand without even trying and you hate how relieved you are to see him again.

“You didn’t turn me,” you say, and he’s still holding your fist but you hope to god he doesn’t let go.

“Doesn’t work like that,” he answers, with a small, timid smile. "And you told me not to."

You look at him, at how he leans so effortlessly against your shitty sedan, how pale his skin is and how you can still see his fangs just barely poking against his lip when he smiles, like he’s used to hiding them and doesn’t know how to show them off without looking like a complete dweeb. He’s this otherworldly creature, dark and foreign and dangerous and _other_ , but he made horrible sexual innuendos and whimpered when you kissed him and held you like you were some precious, breakable thing despite how you’re so much taller than him. You bet, wherever he lives, that he has a horrifyingly large collection of scarves and sleeps in a gaudy canopy bed instead of a coffin.

“All my co-workers have been teasing me all week about my vampire boyfriend,” you say nonchalantly as his hands gently grasp your fist, holding it between both of his as his fingers stroke over your knuckles. If he’s a vampire, you bet every one of those expensive-looking jewels in his rings are real.

You wonder how old he is.

“Do you want one?” he asks tentatively, bending down to kiss the palm of your hand when you let your fingers uncurl. His gaze is hesitant, and you find it absolutely hilarious that you, the gangly, Best Buy Geek Squad employee, is being asked out by a vampire. Not a busty blond or an attractive wisp of a goth girl, but you. Bram Stoker is probably doing acrobatics in his grave.

“I could probably learn to live with the arrangement,” you say, trying to sound aloof, but your heart melts at the way his entire face lights up, lips stretching wide in an unabashed grin that shows off both of those needle-sharp points, and you can’t help but kiss him breathless.

You want to wait until the bruise has faded before you go on your first date, but he shows up at your apartment and wraps a deceptively mild scarf around your throat and whisks you off for a lavish dinner that neither of you are dressed for and you enjoy all the more for it.

(He eats his steak well done, and it’s adorable.)


End file.
